


this restless fever in my blood

by albion



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Good Uncle Thorin, Spoilers for Battle of Five Armies, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fíli is his heir, a lionheart; as strong as the mountain and firm as the stone. In him Thorin sees a solid wall; the pride of the dwarves written in his thick, broad bladed swords, his fur lined leather and his silver capped braids. But Kíli is the crashing waves against the rock, forceful and passionate and unquailed with a burning that reminds Thorin of himself standing outside the gates of Khazad-dûm, raising his sword high, screaming, “Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this restless fever in my blood

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [This Restless Fever In My Blood (Chinese Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/803912) by [d7b7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/d7b7/pseuds/d7b7)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [一脉相承](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144440) by [shunziqing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shunziqing/pseuds/shunziqing)



i.

They are always together. He sees them, he does not disapprove.

 

“Gandalf has found us a burglar,” Fíli is saying. “He’s given us the address. Somewhere in the Shire, I believe. A Mister… Boggins?” he frowns, attempting to recall the wizard’s words.

 

“Thorin is in Ered Luin. The others will have been told, I’m sure.”

 

They set off and arrive together, standing at the circular door. Fíli is smiling, excited to begin their journey. Kíli is anxious.

 

When Thorin finally arrives at Bag End, he sees his nephews and smiles.

 

ii.

Fíli is his heir, a lionheart; as strong as the mountain and firm as the stone. In him Thorin sees a solid wall; the pride of the dwarves written in his thick, broad bladed swords, his fur lined leather and his silver capped braids. But Kíli is the crashing waves against the rock, forceful and passionate and unquailed with a burning that reminds Thorin of himself standing outside the gates of Khazad-dûm, raising his sword high, screaming, _“Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!”_

 

Sometimes Thorin looks at his youngest nephew and is afraid. Afraid that Kíli takes after him too much in his intensity, afraid that one day he will break and Fíli will not be able to hold him up. For he knows that neither of them can function without the other, knows this as he felt the tearing of his soul when Frerin left him to face the wild world alone.

 

Afraid that something on this quest of his could tear them apart.

 

iii.

They’re running through the mountains now, a thousand goblins hot on their trail, and amidst the fighting Thorin keeps Fíli in his sight, sees his double swords swinging wildly, braids of fiery gold in the dim torchlight.

 

But he cannot see his youngest nephew, and allows himself the luxury of panic for a few brief moments.

 

Then a ladder appears, and Kíli is running behind his brother, their twin hairpins glinting.

Thorin breathes.

 

“Fight! Fight!” someone is shouting, and Thorin can see Balin’s mace cracking open the jaw of an unfortunate goblin, Glóin’s axes flashing through the air, Óin hammering down through the ranks.

 

His family are safe.

 

They jump from a swinging piece of wood, and for one awful moment sees Fíli flying through the air and knows that he’s going to fall, he’s not going to grab the edge-

 

Fíli’s hand closes around his arm, and all is well.

 

iv.

He’s not thinking of them now, as his feet take him down the burning trunk. He thinks of Azog, he thinks of his father, his grandfather, of Náin, and Fundin, and Frerin, and all those who perished at Azanulbizar.

 

He will kill Azog now, and the line of Durin will have its vengeance.

 

v.

Frerin had been yellow-haired, with pale blue eyes and a face of laughter. Fíli takes after him, for he is as golden as Kíli is dark. Dark, as Thorin is dark.

 

The family resemblances hurt to look at sometimes.

 

“You should be proud,” Balin is saying, leaning against the wall of the armoury as Thorin sits, polishing a sword. Dwalin is standing nearby, sharpening the blade of Ukhlaz. “To have your heir resemble your brother so strongly.”

 

“Aye, ‘tis a good omen,” offers Dwalin. “His spirit is reborn in your successors.”

 

Thorin pours more oil onto the blade, running the cloth up towards the hilt, and slowly down again.

 

vi.

He turns away from Bilbo to see his nephews, his kin, all smiling except for Dwalin, who looks exasperated that the hobbit would appear to be joining them for good. Fíli has his hands on his belt and is grinning at Kíli, who cannot stop the admiration for the hobbit’s courage shine in his eyes.

 

They are standing in the middle of nowhere, on top of a scraggy peak, many miles from Erebor. But Óin notices a bird flying off into the distance, and despite the Dragon, despite Mirkwood standing between them and their birthright, Thorin smiles down at Bilbo.

 

 _Soon_ , he thinks, _I will sit in the halls of my grandfather, my nephews by my side. And I will give them the things they should have had as Princes of the Blood. I will build from the ashes of Dragon Fire the Kingdom of my Ancestors, and I will die peacefully knowing that my Line is secure._

 

Fíli and Kíli were born into exile in Ered Luin. They had spent their childhood and adolescence looked down upon by Human children, working in the forges of Men and eating from the meagre coin their uncle and father could earn. It was not a life Thorin had ever wanted for them.

 

vii.

When Fíli had been born, Dís had taken Thorin aside and shown him the elegantly carved crib, surrounded by all the presents that other exiled dwarf families had given them.

 

Thorin wraps his arm around her shoulder and squeezes. He smiles, as he has not smiled in a long time.

 

viii.

When Kíli had been born, Fíli was five; lopsided little braids in his hair and gurgling noises the only words from his mouth. Kíli had been a troublesome baby that cried frequently, and would only quieten when Fíli, not quite understanding what the thing making noise in front of him was but knowing that it needed comforting, would place one chubby finger inside the crib that had once been his own, letting Kíli grasp it in a tiny hand.

 

ix.

He sees them now, amidst the blood in his eyes and dripping down his face. Fíli and Kíli, knotted silver and twisted gold, swords clashing with the weapons of a hundred enemies, defending their uncle.

 

Their king.

 

Thorin cradles his broken right arm and hisses a wheezing gasp. He sees Fíli collapse under the mace of an orc, hears Kíli’s scream before he too is shot through the throat, turning his cry into nothing but a bloodied gargle.

 

Thorin shuts his eyes, sees Erebor fall.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

 _I._  
 _How strongly does my passion flow,_  
 _Divided equally 'twixt two?_  
 _Damon had ne'er subdued my heart,_  
 _Had not Alexis took his part;_  
 _Nor could Alexis powerful prove,_  
 _Without my Damon's aid, to gain my love._  
  
 _II._  
 _When my Alexis present is,_  
 _Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;_  
 _But when Alexis I do miss,_  
 _Damon gains nothing but my scorn._  
 _But if it chance they both are by,_  
 _For both alike I languish, sigh, and die._  
  
 _III._  
 _Cure then, thou mighty winged god,_  
 _This restless fever in my blood;_  
 _One golden-pointed dart take back:_  
 _But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?_  
 _If Damon's, all my hopes are crossed;_  
 _Or that of my Alexis, I am lost._  
  
  
"On Her Loving Two Equally"

\- Aphra Behn (1640?-1689)

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will write something happy, But That Is Not This Day.  
>  
> 
> Khuzdul Translations:
> 
> Du Bekâr! | "To Arms!"  
> Ukhlaz | "Grasper"; one of Dwalin's axes, the other being Umraz; "Keeper"


End file.
